


The Trade Agreement Affair

by renn



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 13:37:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renn/pseuds/renn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kuryakin must represent the USSR in negotiations for a trade agreement that no other country wants to sign.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Trade Agreement Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [akane42me](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akane42me/gifts).



The strains of _ye-ye_ music drifted down the back hall of the Ruler’s Residence. Khari Kone sighed. His young nephew-- and leader-- had the most atrocious tastes in music. All this modern, Western _drek_ grated on his soul. He longed for his own office, where music held no sway and the noises of his army in training sang to him. Unfortunately, he had a different job to do at the moment.

As he neared his nephew’s private lounge, he heard the boy’s light tenor meld with Sylvie Vartan’s voice on the record. “ _Quand tu liras cette lettre-là, tu m'en voudras tu me détesteras et pour une fois c'est toi qui souffriras...._ ” Kone sighed again, pausing outside the door long enough to adjust his uniform, hat, and gloves, and stepped inside.

The young man waved at his uncle. “ _Bon apres-midi, oncle!”_ He had stretched out on his chaise lounge, the record player next to him, and the record sleeve resting on his chest. “Such a shame about Sylvie marrying Johnny Halliday, don’t you think?” he continued in French.

“Oh, yes, of course.” Kone had no idea what his nephew was talking about, but felt it better to agree. “It’s time. The delegation from Zumazbe waits in your chambers.”

“Excellent!” He lifted the arm off the record, returned it to its rest, and slipped the LP back into its sleeve. He stood gracefully, grabbing and shouldering into his beige linen suit jacket. He then slapped a traditional beanie on his head and throwing the ceremonial sash around him. “Am I presentable?”

Kobe shrugged. “They will have to forgive you your age, Femi.”

The young man frowned. “I keep telling you, uncle, it’s ‘Ollie,’ not ‘Femi.’”

“And I keep telling you that ‘Ollie’ is too Western. Your name is Olufemi, and you should be called ‘Femi’ for short.”

Olufemi smiled. “Thanks for trying to lighten my mood.” He fell into step with Kobe as they headed toward the leader’s chambers. “Do you think they will sign?”

“I thought everyone who have come through our country the past three months would have signed.”

“Me too. Something strange is going on, Uncle Khari.”

“The gods do not approve of our nation having relations with other countries.”

“That’s silly. Nations survive in part by having good relations with other nations. Trade deals are especially important. All Ndidi has is gold and farm land. We need timber, minerals, that kind of thing in order to grow into the First World country we should be.”

“Why should we be a First World country? We should figure out what we need to be before we decide how high we want to aim. We’ve only been independent from France for 5 years.”

“And in those 5 years, my people have suffered.” Olufemi patted Kobe on the back. “My dear departed father saw the wisdom of stepping onto the main stage. And I agree with his wishes. Why can’t you see it?”

Kobe gave his nephew a fond grin. “Femi, the change you’re talking about happens in a generation, not in a handful of years.”

They stopped in front of the doors leading into the leader chambers. Kobe inspected Olufemi’s appearance, adjusting his beanie and sash to the proper angles. He nodded, then pushed the door open, and allowed his nephew to enter first.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Olufemi nodded to the trio of middle-aged men wearing an amalgamation of Western business suits and traditional accessories. “I am so happy to see you. I think our agreement between Ndidi and Zumazbe will benefit us both.” He slid into a seat at the table opposite the lead Zumazbe negotiator. “Are you ready to sign, Talib?”

The older man nodded. “Zumazbe looks forward to a fruitful arrangement between our fledgling nations.” He gestured toward the document that rested on the table between them. “Everything looks in order. Shall we sign?”

“Of course.” Olufemi winked at Kobe; Kobe produced an elaborate wooden box with a plush silk lining that held two fountain pens. He passed one to Olufemi and the other to Talib. Olufemi signed the documents first with a flourish, then turned the papers around for the Zumazbe representative to sign.

Talib, however, blanched. “No. No, no, no, no, no! This cannot happen.” He flung the pen down and all but ran out of the room, his advisors following him in confusion.

Olufemi grimaced as he looked at his uncle. “It happened again! Good God, are we cursed?”

*****

Alexander Waverly stopped the film. “Gentlemen, you see there’s some difficulty in securing trade agreements with Ndidi.”

“How long has this been going on, sir?” Napoleon asked, pen poised to take notes on his legal pad.

“Several months. Ever since the young man took over the country.” Waverly flipped a switch on his console; a photo of Olufemi popped onto the viewscreen. “Olufemi Ballo, gentlemen. Twenty-three, a recent graduate of École Spéciale des Travaux Publics, du Bâtiment et de l'Industrie in Paris. Became ruler of Ndidi approximately 6 months ago upon the sudden death of his father.”

“Nice little royal arrangement,” Solo commented.

Illya Kuryakin added, “Who’s the power behind the throne?” At his partner’s side-eye, he added more quietly, “There’s always a power behind the throne when the throne’s that young. Otherwise, the military would be obviously in charge.”

“The power would appear to be Khari Kobe, the head of what passes as the armed forces in Ndidi, and maternal uncle to the young leader.”

“I take it’s not just a clear-cut case of behind-the-scenes power plays.” Solo tapped his pen against the pen thoughtfully. “Kobe, of course, must be playing it to the hilt. Kind and sympathetic to his nephew, drilling his troops for a take-over in his spare time. All cut-and-dried. We’ve seen it in a number of African countries since the big decolonizations in 1960. So-- what’s so different? Is it just these diplomats running off at the last minute?”

“Surely that’s enough to justify U.N.C.L.E.’s presence,” Kuryakin countered.

“Well, yes, of course, but I want to make sure there’s no hint of our feathered friends fluttering about the palace.”

Waverly nodded. “Quite right, Mr. Solo. As far as we can tell, Thrush has no involvement. That doesn’t mean they don’t have a presence; if they’re there, it’s on an insubstantial level.”

Illya nodded agreement. “And therefore, not our main focus.”

“Indeed.” Waverly killed the photo display, then rummaged through the stack of papers in front of him until he latched onto a nondescript white envelope. He passed it on to Kuryakin.

Kuryakin studied it for a moment. His full name and rank in the Soviet navy -- both in Cyrillic-- graced the front of the otherwise plain #10 envelope. He rolled his eyes, fought off a sigh, and opened the envelope, turning so that his partner couldn’t glance at the contents. He skimmed the missive before tucking it into his suit jacket. “I assume I am to leave immediately, sir?”

“First thing in the morning, Mr. Kuryakin. You can pick up a briefing packet from Miss Wanda before you head out.”

“Thank you, sir.” Kuryakin nodded at his superior before vacating the room.

“What the---” Solo began.

“Mister Solo, your partner has been assigned a task by his government. You will provide support, of course, but you will not be an active participant. Is that clear?”

“Crystal, sir.”

“You might benefit from reading up on the country information before you chat again with your partner.”

“Of course, sir.” Solo grabbed the folder that was spun around to him. “We’ll make this work.”

“I have no doubt of that, Mr. Solo.” Waverly gave his senior agent a terse nod before resuming his perusal of paperwork.

Solo stalked out of his superior’s office as he perused the background information he was given. As he approached his office, he pulled out his communicator and opened a channel to his partner. “What do you think, my friend? Pine Yard?”

“Takeaway, and bring it to my place around 7. Agreed?”

“Agreed, Tovarich. Agreed.” Solo silenced the channel, shut the office door behind him, and settled in to do some further reading.

**********

Illya answered his door swiftly that evening, grabbing the food from his partner as he waved Solo toward the hatstand in the corner. “Good evening to you, too,” Solo chuckled.

“Sorry. Hungry.” Sounds of dinnerware being put on the kitchen table drifted through the flat.

Solo hung up his overcoat and joined Kuryakin in the kitchen. The Russian had already put out plates and chopsticks; he was in the process of opening containers to see what Solo had brought. “Got your usual, figured you would want a last proper meal before diving into political waters.”

“Diplomacy isn’t my forte, although I appreciate why I’ve been charged with this mission.” He scooped some rice and a large helping of kung pao chicken onto his plate and pointed Solo into the other seat. He pointed at the bottle of beer; Solo nodded appreciatively.

“Why _have_ you been given this mission? The Old Man didn’t say much, other than to study up on the region. Which I have.” Napoleon helped himself to some Mongolian beef and several eggrolls, then settled into his seat. “And from everything the U.N.C.L.E.’s got, Ndidi is just another fledgling escapee from tyrannical French rule.”

“As opposed to all the fledging escapees from tyrannical British rule.”

“You say tomato....” Solo shrugged. “Really, the only thing that’s interesting about this country is that the young replacement for the founding ruler is still alive. I think the uncle is not your average bear.”

“Your average....? Oh.” Illya rolled his eyes as he had another bite of his chicken. “Really, you need to watch other things on Saturday mornings. Better yet, don’t watch anything at all.”

“We can’t all be monks, my friend. Seriously, though.... what do you know that I don’t know that you can actually tell me?”

“Not a lot. If it’s any comfort, I understand you will get a full briefing in-flight.”

“Are we travelling together?”

“Sort of. My government appreciates the opportunity to piggy-back on U.N.C.L.E.’s travel arrangements.”

“In other words, they’re too cheap to pony up for the travel themselves.”

“Do not put words in my mouth, comrade.” The twinkle in Kuryakin’s eye belied his stern words.

“Oh, goodness no, comrade, wouldn’t think of it. Still-- sounds like the Soviets on one end of the plane, me and whoever else comes along on the other. And never the twain shall meet.”

Kuryakin grabbed an eggroll. “There’ll be a brief meeting, where my fellow countrymen can sneer at your wanton Western ways and you lot can mock silently our filthy Eastern ways.”

“Okay, so ‘lay it on me,’ as the kids say, what you can tell me.”

Illya frowned. “Don’t try slang, Napoleon. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Says the one who can’t get his metaphors straight.”

“Why should I deny you a moment of entertainment?” They toasted each other, and swallowed appreciatively before Kuryakin continued. “I can tell you the following... The USSR has legitimately negotiated a trade agreement with Ndidi. It’s small potatoes, really, but my country appreciates any foothold into Africa. Spreading the communist love, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” Solo agreed.

“The only reason the USSR is involved is that every single Western European country-- including France-- passed on setting up a relationship with Ndidi, based on the assumption that if no other African nation wanted relations, then there was Something Going On and avoidance was the best course of action.” Noting his partner’s puzzled expression, Kuryakin added, “Apparently word gets around.”

“Apparently. No U.S. interest?”

“Enough trouble going on with Vietnam at the moment. Besides, I suspect that your government wants the USSR to have a foothold just to make it easier for them to have one, too.”

Solo nodded. “Sounds about right. So... you just there to sign the thing?”

“Yes, with a small entourage in tow. The trio are all eager puppies, wanting to get ahead, and not ashamed to bound over anyone in their path.”

“I’m not to be in the room with you when you’re signing?”

Kuryakin shook his head. “No, you’ll be stationed off site, with U.N.C.L.E.’s eager puppies, listening in and offering commentary.”

“How?”

“With this.” Kuryakin produced what looked to be an over-the-ear hearing aid. “I have to feign being hard-of-hearing; you will be able to listen in and transmit information over the device. The link will assure that the Western and Asian supporters of U.N.C.L.E. are having their needs met.”

“Dealing with Thrush is so much easier.”

“Agreed.” Kuryakin snatched the wax paper bag of fortune cookies. Opening it, he grabbed a one at random for his partner. “ _Pour toi.”_ he murmured.

“ _Merci, mon ami.”_  Solo cracked the cookie, extracted the fortune, and read, “You will live in interesting times.” He snorted. “”Oh, and that’s not obvious at all.”

Kuryakin opened up his cookie. “‘You will enjoy the warmth of the sun.’ That’s also obvious, since I will be wearing summer-weight clothing in the middle of December.”

“So today’s temperatures have helped prepare you for tropical heat.”

“Mid-40’s? I think not. I can only hope I return to proper temperatures in time to acknowledge your silly Western Christmas.”

Solo raised his beer at his partner. “To your filthy Eastern ways.”

**********

Solo and his U.N.C.L.E. “puppies”-- in reality a pair of agents freshly graduated from Survival School and in need of further schooling-- arrived at the private jet first. The taller puppy, a dishwater blonde with a strong chin named Mike Jersey, looked around the well-appointed cabin. “Do we get dibs on which end of the plane? ‘Cause if so, I’d like the end closest to the stewardess.”

“You’ve obviously _just_ come from Survival School,” Solo remarked disapprovingly. He glanced at the other young agent, a redheaded man with a large nose and amused half-grin. “Is he always this girl-obsessive, Curran?”

Niall Curran chuckled. “The lad’s been deprived the past few months, sir.” He spoke with a delightful Irish lilt.

“Well, being deprived doesn’t give license to acting depraved.”

“Aw, I’m just window shopping, geez,” Jersey groused. “And you’re a fine one to talk, Mr. Solo. Your reputation with the ladies--”

“--has nothing to do with my effectiveness on assignment. We’ll sit in the back.” Solo lead the way to the rear of the plane, motioning Jersey into the window seat before sitting down himself. Jersey pointedly stared out the window; Solo suspected the young man was sulking.

Curran sat opposite them. “We have four Soviets joining us, don’t we?”

“Yes. A senior representative and several aides.”

“Here they come now,” Jersey commented. As the quartet approached the plane, the young agent jerked away from the window, surprised. “Isn’t that...?” he began.

“Yes, it is.”

“But why--?”

“Because all of us are subject to the commands of our governments as well as the U.N.C.L.E.”

“So we’re going along to make sure the commie doesn’t spill organizational secrets.”

Curran kicked his partner in the shin. “Y’ daft fool, y’ don’t talk about Number 2, Section 2 like that. Especially not in front of his partner.”

Solo clucked his tongue. “I see you have a lot of bad habits to drop before you can be formally deployed in the field, Mr. Jersey.”

“Just ‘cause I’m picking on the fucking commie is--”

“The ‘fucking commie’ is a far superior human being to you, obviously.”

“Laddie, keep yer mouth shut,” Curran advised.

“Listen to your partner. You’re on _very_ thin ice right now. As a multi-national organization, U.N.C.L.E. and its representatives _must_ keep an open mind.”

“If you wanted to indulge yer prejudices,” Curran added, “you should have joined yer CIA.”

“Fine. Just fine.” Jersey folded his arms across his chest and slid down in his chair, entering full sulking mode.

Curran leaned forward and whispered to Solo loud enough for Jersey to hear, “I suppose we shouldn’t be sayin’ anything about our first female enforcement agent, then. I’d hate for his tiny little mind to be blown....”

“You know of April Dancer?”

“Sure. Mr. Cutter was using her as an example all the time to get the lads in my class to step up. Mike here thought he was kiddin’, but, well, I glimpsed her as her group was leaving and ours arriving. Always going to notice another ginger, me.”

“I see great potential in you, Mr. Curran. For now, though, hush. Here come the Soviets.....”

**********

Illya Kuryakin hated being in uniform. Although one could argue that his customary dark suits and turtleneck sweaters were a uniform, they were an unofficial one. His official Soviet Navy regalia irritated his skin (cheap wool and cotton) and the trousers gave him a perpetual wedgie. Still, the whelps who trailed after him had it worse-- their rankings assured that the uniforms didn’t fit properly and would disintegrate after 6 months or so of wearing.

A trio had been assigned to him, all taller, younger, and more eager. Kuryakin had decided that from the way they shadowed his every move and discussed things amongst themselves in hushed tones, they wanted to use any opportunity possible to snitch on him-- and thus perhaps get promoted to the relatively-cushy KGB. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. He spent the car ride over and the trek through the airport as the very model of dour, proper Soviet representative. He purposefully strode up the stairs to the U.N.C.L.E. jet, using the removal of his uniform hat to flash his partner a brief half-grin of acknowledgement. The whelps tumbled on board directly after him, shouldering out of their overcoats in the hurry to deposit them with the stewardess and score the seat next to Kuryakin.

Utkin won out, planting himself firmly in the seat. Both Popov and Markovic glared at him as they settled in the pair of seats across.

The stewardess secured the door, ran through the safety procedures briefly in both English and Russian, performed her other pre-flight checks, and belted herself in her jumpseat. The jet soon took off. Once it reached 10,000 feet, the stewardess undid her seatbelt and disappeared into the small galley. The U.N.C.L.E. agents distracted themselves with books; the trio of Soviet underlings glanced over mission notes. Soon enough, the stewardess brought out trays of black bread, sausages, and tea for the Soviets. The U.N.C.L.E. agents in back received eggs, bacon, and coffee.

After breakfast, the U.N.C.L.E. agents returned to their books. The Soviet underlings all whipped out identical copies of _Monday Begins on Saturday_  and started reading. They turned pages in unison, and made appreciative grunts in unison. Kuryakin wondered briefly if they had rehearsed it. Still, at least they were reading the Strugatsky Brothers instead of some governmental handbook.  He returned to his battered copy of _Du côté de Chez Swann_ with a soft sigh.

**********

Olufemi sauntered into the dining room, slipping into his place at the head of the table. “Sorry I’m late.”

Kobe raised an eyebrow. He sat midway down the long table, on the right of his nephew. “Governmental business, I hope.”

“No, actually, I was writing a letter to one of my Parisian friends.”

“It’s good to have a personal life,” Olufemi’s mother confirmed from her place at the foot of the table. “Having outside interests will keep you alive. If only your father had--”

“Tatenda, really,” Kobe admonished. “Your precious Jelani didn’t die from boredom. He died because his time was up.”

Tatenda glared at her brother. “His time was hardly up, Khari. He was only 53.”

Kobe shrugged. “Many people in our country die around that age, sister.”

Olufemi’s 15-year-old sister, Lerato, pounded the table. “Just shut up, all of you. Father’s dead and you don’t have to keep bringing him up!” She returned to her meal, resolutely shoveling the morsels into her mouth without giving herself much time to chew between bites.

Her reaction wrapped the rest of the meal in silence. She bolted as soon as she was finished eating. Kobe reminded Olufemi to join him in his private quarters in half an hour for the pen ceremony before leaving. Olufemi glanced at his mother. Tatenda held both arms open; Olufemi hurried into her embrace.

“Oh, my baby, it’s so hard, isn’t it?” she cooed, stroking his hair. “All this responsibility thrust onto you....”

“I don’t trust Oncle Khari, Maman.”

“Neither do I, baby. I know he thinks he knows what’s best for all of us, but still... Your father trusted him too much.”

“I agree.” Sighing, Olufemi slipped out of his mother’s hug. “I suppose I’d better go do the ceremony thing. Lot of nonsense, if you ask me.”

“We shouldn’t disrespect our country’s traditions.”

“This particular tradition doesn’t even mention any of our traditions. No gods, no spirits, nothing.”

Tatenda clucked her tongue. “Then you need to find out what’s really going on.”

“Oh, I plan to, Maman, I plan to.” He planted a gentle kiss on the top of his mother’s head, then grabbed his water glass on the way to his uncle’s chambers.

He found Kobe stretched out on a chaise, reading paperwork as a footman provided a breeze with a large, leafy fan. “Oh, hello, Femi. Are you ready?”

Olufemi shrugged. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Then take a seat.” He waved his nephew over to a corner of the office, filled with pillows, rugs, and candles. He lit several tapers, then produced an elaborate wooden box that hosted two fountain pens in a pillowed silk lining. “Let us pray.”

Olufemi rolled his eyes, but otherwise joined Kobe in hovering his hands over the opened box. “May these pens benefit our country; may these pens foster understanding.” Kobe closed his eyes in silent contemplation; Olufemi maintained a skeptical silence. After a few moments, Kobe opened his eyes and snatched his hands away from the case. Olufemi also removed his hands. “It is done, Femi. We are as prepared as we can be for tomorrow’s signing.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“As do I. The troops are getting restless, you know.”

“Oh, I suppose they are. Is there going to be a coup, then, if the treaty’s not signed?”

“Do not speak of such things!”

Olufemi smirked. “I get how the land lies, Oncle. Please let’s not mess this signing up. I value my life, even if you don’t.”

“Femi! Really! I have nothing but the highest respect for you.”

“Isn't that the same thing you told my father?” Kobe blanched; Olufemi grinned. “See you in the morning, Oncle. I have some new records to listen to.....” The young man easily stood and sweeped out of the room.

Kobe sighed. Olufemi was definitely his father’s son... which is why he had to be removed from power. He retrieved one fountain pen from the box, then exchanged it in his jacket pocket for a small, faceted glass bottle with a black stopper and a small silver label with a stylized black bird on it. He opened it carefully, and sprinkled the contents over the plush box lining. “For the glory of Ndidi,” he murmured.

Steam began rising up from the box. Kobe slammed the lid closed and tucked it under his arm. Standing, he hurried through the door to his private chamber, shutting and locking the door after him.

**********

The Palace Hotel was anything but, according to the young men who accompanied Solo and Kuryakin. No vodka for the Soviets, no room service for the U.N.C.L.E. agents, and too many weird nighttime noises to make any of them comfortable. The Soviet trio hunkered down at a table in the restaurant, picking at what passed as their breakfast. On the other side of the room, the younger U.N.C.L.E. pair did the same. All five kept their eyes on Solo and Kuryakin, who sat in the middle of the room, tucking into their meal with gusto.

“I really hope this case will be cut-and-dried,” Solo commented between bites. “I don’t want to have to drag Martin and Lewis over there into battle.”

“Especially with Jersey so fond of the Soviet Union and its representatives.”

“I had no idea his reputation preceded him.”

Kuryakin gave a half-shrug. “The Old Man always alerts me to problematic new personnel.”

“Ah. Still, even Jersey’s better than your Three Stooges. Do they do _everything_ in unison?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“We could find out.”

“No. Just no. Now, do we have a Plan B, or are we going to rely on our respective comedy teams for back-up?”

“Up to the Stooges if anything goes south during the signing. We’re all monitoring things from our hotel room.”

“I see. Well, we’ll have to hope for the best.” He finished up his meal, rose, and placed his napkin neatly by his plate. “Be hearing you, my friend.” Kuryakin gestured toward the exit with a jerk of his head; his trio of companions synchronized their leaving.

Solo had a last sip of coffee, then nodded at Jersey and Curran. “All right, you two. Time to get that listening post going.”

*********

Kuryakin heard the cackle of a microphone turning on over his faux hearing-aid as the governmental car neared the Ruler’s Residence. His partner’s dulcet tones squeaked tinnily in his ear. “Open Channel ‘E’.”

“‘E’ as in ‘ear’?” he responding, causing the trio across from him to twitch, startled by his sudden speaking. “I trust you can hear me?”

“Loud and clear, my friend. Our tracking shows you’re nearly there.”

“Yes. Ready for show time?”

“As ready as we can be, given the circumstances. I’ll keep the channel open.”

“Very well.” Kuryakin raised his hand to his ear and mimed adjusting the communicator.

The young Soviets exchanged glances, using head movements, eye twitches, and eyebrow raisings in order to goad one of them into speaking. Finally, Utkin cleared his throat. “Must we be monitored by a Western agency? Do they not trust you, comrade? You _are_ one of them, after all.”

“I am also one of you, and I am representing our government at this signing. U.N.C.L.E. is a multinational organization, which means they’re acting as a neutral party to make sure everything goes well. Surely you know all of this.”

“Yes, comrade, but--”

“--it’s not fair,” Markovic finished.

“Not fair at all,” Popin agreed.

“We should have this assignment ourselves,” Utkin threw in.

“Obviously not. Comrades, I realize that you’re going to do your utmost best to give as unflattering a report as possible about my actions during our time together-- but you should keep in mind that I also have a report to file. So far, all I have to put on it is that you are three petulant children who have to do everything in unison in order to get through your day. Hardly complimentary.”

“But you were talking with an _American_!” Popin squeaked.

“I was talking with my partner at the U.N.C.L.E., if you must know. He can’t help his nationality, any more than you can help yours.” The car stopped; the driver shut the engine off, and scrambled out of the car in order to open the door for the passengers. “I would suggest, comrades, that you keep your mouths shut and your ears open from this point forward.”

The car door opened. Kuryakin waved the young men out first before sliding out himself. He surveyed the building, looking to the casual observer as the very model of a disdainful Soviet official. An underling hurried out of the building, “Comrade Kuryakin, gentlemen, please, this way,” he greeted in French.

Kuryakin nodded tersely and fell in line just behind the underling. Utin, Popin, and Markovic jostled for positions behind, ending up trailing after him in alphabetical order.

The underling brought them into the leader’s reception chambers. A desk sat in the middle of the room, one chair in front, another behind. A coffee service sat off to one side; other chairs and a settee beckoned. “Please make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen,” the underling invited before disappearing through a side door.

Kuryakin wandered the room, taking in the simplicity and the many delicately-carved soapstone wildlife statues that dotted several table tops and the desk. He picked up an elephant and inspected it closely. “This is really quite amazing work,” he commented to his companions... before frowning at their rigid postures and stiff stares at a point on the opposite wall. “You’re allowed to inspect the premises, gentlemen.”

“Comrades,” they corrected as one.

“Parrots,” Solo commented in Illya’s ear.

“Gentlemen,” Illya emphasised, “Always be aware of the potential of your surroundings, and always acquiesce to the local culture. One can’t hope to spread the message of communism with an iron hand alone. One needs that velvet glove to cover it... and an idea of how to defend oneself or escape should the matter arise.”

The trio exchanged glances; Kuryakin could tell they were daring each other to contradict him first. They were saved from speaking up by the arrival of Olufemi and Kobe. “Monsieur Kuryakin?” Olufemi asked.

“I am Illya Kuryakin, yes.” Kuryakin crossed to the young leader, offering his hand.

“Ollie Ballo, the leader of Ndidi.” He shook hands, then indicated his uncle. “This is Khari Kobe, the head of the military and my top advisor.”

Kuryakin shook hands with Kobe, as well, noting the gentleman had on a pair of gloves. Curious, considering the weather and how no one else in the employ of Olufemi-- or Olufemi himself-- wore them. He kept a carefully casual eye on the military leader as they finished pleasantries and settled down to the business of treaty signing.

“As you can see, Monsieur Kuryakin, everything is as agreed between your government and us.” Kobe handed him the document. “I don’t expect you to read the whole thing right now, but--”

“I will skim it, thanks.” He skipped through it, checking for the salient points, all the time wondering what was going on. For all that Olufemi was touted as being firmly in charge of his country, Kobe was doing the lion share of leading the meeting. And those gloves of his weren’t really right. Kuryakin eventually finished reviewing the treaty, nodding as he placed it down on the desk, signing page on top. “Quite acceptable, gentlemen.”

“Then we look forward to many years working together for the betterment of both our people,” Kobe said.

“Oncle,” Olufemi admonished. “Really.”

“I am only doing as you wish, nephew.” Kobe produced a small wooden box and opened it with a flourish, revealing two fountain pens. “Monsieur Kuryakin?” He handed over one of the writing instruments.

Kuryakin took the pen. It felt slightly oily, as if freshly polished. As he uncapped it, his breath suddenly hitched. The muscles in his hand had tightened; his heart sped up. A wave of fear washed over him, and he understood why every other diplomat had suddenly bolted.

Fortunately, he had superior training. That didn’t mean he didn’t want to jump out of his seat, pull out his gun, and barrel out of the room, bullets keeping the unknown antagonists at bay. It merely meant that he was able to take several long, ragged breaths to try to calm himself before commenting, “Interesting pen. And polished so well. The sheen is intoxicating....”

Over the earpiece, Solo demanded, “Illya? You drugged?”

“You might say that.... it’s a very nice pen indeed.”

“Hang tight, my friend, I’m sending back-up for your back-up.” Illya could hear his partner bark a command quietly, and the sound of a door closing hurriedly.

“We pride ourselves on our hospitality, Monsieur,” Kobe said, an eyebrow cocked in puzzlement. Did he not put enough formula in the box? Or did the formula not work the same way when applied to someone with white skin?

“So I see.” He felt the muscle tightness spread; it was becoming hard to breathe normally, the urge to hyperventilate growing by leaps and bounds. “Let me just sign, and....” He positioned his hand over the signature line.... and noticed how badly his hand shook. Olufemi noticed it, too. Kuryakin gave the young leader a weak half-smile. “Too much coffee this morning, perhaps.”

“We pride ourselves in growing some of the finest coffee beans on the continent,” Kobe stated.

“Illya, get rid of that pen asap, please!” Solo urged in his partner’s ear.

“You have a fine quality brew.” Kuryakin forced himself to take several more deep breaths. The shaking of his hand became worse.

He glanced up at OIufemi. The young ruler considered him, both worry and hope written across his face. “Are you all right, Monsieur?” he asked quietly.

“I will be, in a moment.” Kuryakin locked eyes with Olufemi. Despite all the physical distress he was feeling, the urge to do right by the young man held precedence. He scribbled his cyrillic signature on the appropriate line, pushed the paper toward Olufemi, and flung the pen in a far corner of the room. He then snapped his fingers; his Soviet associates snapped to attention. “Grab Kobe,” he ordered in Russian.

The threesome swooped in and captured Kobe before he had much time to react.

“What’s going on?” Olufemi demanded.

“Monsieur Ballo-- your uncle has been orchestrating the last-minute failures to sign treaties.” Kuryakin began rubbing his hands together, paying special attention to the back of his hands, in order to help calm himself back down. “He’s treated the pens with a fast-acting drug of some sort that induces fear. That’s why none of your neighbors were able to formally sign the treaties.”

“I should be shocked... but I can’t be. I’ve suspected him for some time.” Olufemi gave Kuryakin a harder look. “Why aren’t you affected?”

“I _am_ affected... but I have the training to be able to resist the effects to a degree.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much. I am eternally grateful.” Olufemi raised his voice. “Attendants!”

A pair of uniformed young men marched smartly into the room.

“Confine Minister Kobe to his bedroom until further notice-- and pull his telephone out of the wall.”

As the pair advanced on him, Kobe cried, “I can explain, Femi, really!”

“Later, perhaps. If I’m interested in listening.”

The Ndidi guards carted Kobe off; the Soviet threesome turned their attention to Kuryakin. “Comrade? Orders?” Utkin ventured.

“Stand down, comrades, and rest assured you all did well. Shall we get you back to Mother Russia?”

The trio nodded. Kuryakin waved them out of the room, then resumed rubbing his hands.

“I’m sorry my uncle acted so,” Olufemi offered.

“Out of your control. You know better now. Keep on your path and you will do your people well. And if you’ll excuse me, I really need some fresh air.” Kuryakin bolted out of the office.

“Illya, I’m on my way,” Solo assured through the ear piece. “We’ll get you taken care of.”

“Please hurry, Napoleon, the effect is escalating....” Illya plopped himself outside the main entrance to the leader’s residence. He folded himself into a ball, clutching knees with his arms and letting all the drug-induced fear have at him.

He vaguely noted the arrival of Jersey and Curran, but didn’t feel compelled to respond until he heard Solo’s voice. “Come on, tovarich, let’s get you analysed.” He felt his partner tug his hand. He looked up, saw nothing but understanding on Napoleon’s face, and forced himself to stand. “Blood draw soon?” he managed.

“Of course-- then we’re off to Cairo for further debriefing.”

“The others?”

Solo shrugged. “Curran’s staying here, working with Monsieur Ballo to make sure that Kobe’s dealt with properly. Jersey gets to escort the Three Stooges back home.”

Kuryakin burst out laughing. “You evil, evil man.”

“Perhaps. It will certainly test his worthiness as a field agent.”

“Yes, and the amusement may also dissipate the level of whatever drug is coursing through my system.”

“Then let’s get back to the hotel, and I’ll draw your blood, and we’ll go to Algiers from there.” Solo gave his partner a quick hug, then offered his hand for guidance, chuckling when it was rejected. He fell into step beside Kuryakin as he strode toward the waiting car.

*********

That evening in AlgiersHQ, Solo dropped in on his partner. Kuryakin had been confined to the medical wing for observation while the effects of the drug careened through his system; he made a poor patient, which only meant he felt much better. He looked, however, completely wiped. “I hear you get sprung tomorrow morning.”

“Hopefully they won’t wake me up to do so.”

“If you’re tired, sleep.”

“You try sleeping when you feel like you’ve been run over by a truck-- except for your mind, of course, that’s still surging along at light speed reliving every single moment of fear.”

“So, just another typical end of an assignment.”

Kuryakin made a face. “If you must phrase it like that....”

Solo chuckled. “I’ll pick you up in the morning. With luck, we’ll make it back to New York in time for the Section IV Christmas party.” He placed a file on his friend’s lap. “And if you really want some good sleeping material, this will do it. Although the part about Jersey and the Stooges is rather entertaining.”

Kuryakin glanced at the report, raising an eyebrow at a paragraph that caught his attention. “I love a good bedtime story,” he remarked casually.

“Then I’ll leave you to it. See you in the morning.” With a final nod, Solo left the room.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my dear sister [redacted] for the beta!


End file.
